Broken
by asailboatinthemoonlightandyou
Summary: Shameless Turnadette smut. Patrick comes home late after a difficult birth and needs his wife. Much much angst, friends. Hope you enjoy.


**A/N: **I was feeling moody and broody, and let's face it—we all need a little smut to get us through this darn hiatus. Enjoy, you lovely people with dirty minds.

**Disclaimer: **All of this belongs to the always wonderful HTMG, Neal Street Productions, and all the other corporate-ass bullshit that goes into making our favorite program.

**Broken**

She knew he had lost the mother by the way he touched her.

Slow, light, reverent—as if he couldn't fathom her being there in his bed.

This was always how it started.

His fingertips feathered across her shoulder, down her arm and into the cradle of her hip. His hand became firmer then, turning her to face him and kissing her fiercely. He poured his anger—at God, at himself—and his love—only for her—into each movement of his lips. She ached for his sorrow and she ached for wanting him, a duality of pain and imminent pleasure that tugged at her heart.

Better to say nothing, to ask questions in the morning when his rawness had been somewhat soothed.

Better to touch him and let him touch her.

There were times when their lovemaking was all breathless giggles and soft sighs, whimsical even. There were times when it was achingly tender, full of patient discovery and ceaseless wonder, of waiting until they simply couldn't wait anymore, until one twist of his hips hit her _just there_, and all was lost in the sweetest way possible.

And then there were other times, when he came to her broken and she let him break her, too; hard, fast, without restraint and without fear. He would not hurt her, but he would not be gentle either.

It was one of those nights when he lost Mae Saunders.

And her baby girl.

Her nightgown was off in seconds, undergarments soon joining the silky puddle on the floor beside the bed. His clothes soon followed.

She knew better than to try and slow him down.

She kissed him deeply, knowing full well she might not have another opportunity. His rhythm would be too hard, too fast, to keep her mouth attached to his.

She arched beneath him as his hands came round her back, splaying across her smooth skin and pulling her tighter to him. Her own hands anchored in his hair. They each found solid ground in the other, a rock on shifting sands.

He tore his mouth from hers as his lips moved to her neck, his teeth and tongue sure to leave a mark. His hands were everywhere at once, holding tighter, pushing harder, finding the one place she needed him most as he lavished his attentions on her collarbone. One of her hands relinquished its grip in his hair to stifle her ever-louder cries of pleasure.

She moaned in disappointment as both hands returned to her back all too soon, and he placed a kiss of apology between her breasts.

She barely had time to marvel at the sweetness of such a gesture before he was inside her, pulsing and pounding with a force she'd never seen in him. She clutched at his back and shoulders as the full weight of him bore down on her, pinning her to the bed as their hips drove together in delicious friction.

She could not keep pace with him, so she clung to him and let his body move hers, her mouth firmly pressed in the crook of his neck as every moan and hitched breath seeped into his skin.

She felt it building, the white-hot, ice-cold, inexplicable knot of pleasure forming in her core. She could tell he was close, too; his thrusts were more raw, more ragged.

It was she who tilted her hips, sending him a fraction deeper. Her body lifted of its own accord, arcing off the bed as her nails dug into his back, her lips parting without breath left to make a sound.

He tightened, letting out a guttural moan as he finished as well, broken pieces of a man put back together by the way their bodies aligned.

She met his gaze, her eyes wide in awe at what this man could do to her, and she found both fear and relief swirling in the hazel green. She stroked his tousled hair back from his forehead, her fingertips brushing his temple.

Now was the time for tenderness, for the comfort no other lover could give.

And in the morning, it would be slow and sweet, soft murmurings and subtle catches in their breathing.

In the morning, their bodies would shed the night and let the half-light of dawn seep into their veins.

In the morning, there would be peace.

**Whew! Off to grab a glass of ice water. Read and review please, darlings.**


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